


Ultimatum

by akane42me



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-06
Updated: 2011-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-21 02:43:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akane42me/pseuds/akane42me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to 'Alone', in which Illya returns from a botched mission.<br/>Here's what happens the next day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ultimatum

**Author's Note:**

> Written in November 2007 for a mfuwss beta challenge.

ULTIMATUM

The unrelenting beeping from his communicator pulled Illya upright. He fished for the pen in the pocket of his suit coat, but came up empty. The beeping continued. He followed the sound and found its source wedged into the gap between two of the couch cushions. He slipped it open and spoke to it. “Kuryakin here.”

Wanda‘s crisp voice came at him. “Mr. Kuryakin, you are to report to Headquarters.” She hesitated, then continued in a softer voice. “Illya, Mr. Waverly has … requested that you come to his office at ten o‘clock.”

Illya nodded, unsurprised. “Thank you, Wanda, for the nuanced version, but I find it improbable that Mr. Waverly phrased it as a request.” 

A rustling sound made by a hand shielding a microphone preceded Wanda’s whisper. “Actually, it sounded more like an ultimatum. He said you’d better be in his office at ten o’clock and not a second sooner or later, or you’d find yourself transferred to the weather station at Raufarhofn.”

Illya snorted. “Relax. It’s an idle threat. He’s merely a bit annoyed with me.” He winced at the lack of conviction in his voice. 

“Merely annoyed?” Now Wanda sounded doubtful, too. “He said to tell you a car is on the way to pick you up. It ought to be at your place around 8:45.” 

“Thank you, Wanda.” An escort. He replaced the cap on his communicator. He thought about the report he‘d recorded last night. He knew it wouldn’t take Waverly long to discover his … disinformation. He’d hoped for more time.

He checked his watch. 8:20. He would have time to do little more than a fast soap-off and shave. In the bathroom, he scrutinized himself in the mirror. It didn't matter. No amount of time in the shower would fix the red-eyed mess staring back at him.

He was ready early, but when he glanced out the window, the car was already there. He took the time to make a final, unneeded adjustment to the knot in his tie before leaving.   
 _Like a schoolboy summoned to appear before the headmaster,_  he thought,  _hoping to lessen the thrashing for the failing grade with a regimental countenance._ He took a deep breath. He replayed the disastrous events of yesterday morning at Madride’s ranch. Madride, his informant - dead. The daughter, a little girl - missing. He saw the red hole explode in the center of Madride’s forehead. He saw the nurse haul the little girl up the stairs at gunpoint. His pursuit. The struggle at the balustrade. The nurse’s fall, and the girl’s. And Chuy Hernandez’ voice out of nowhere, screaming at him to move…

Illya smoothed his tie, estimating the grilling and chastisement to come. Something made him take another look out at the driver, who leaned against the car, watching the street. Illya’s mouth twisted as he recognized the familiar build. Escort, indeed. He locked up and left. He approached the car, squinting against the too-bright glare of morning sun. 

Napoleon turned around at the sound of his approach. “Need a ride, buddy?” he asked. 

Illya stopped short of the car. “What is this? I don’t need to be hauled in like this.”

Napoleon threw his hands up. “Whoa - I’m just the driver. Think of me as your very own personal taxi driver.” 

“Just don’t expect a tip, my cabbie friend.” 

Napoleon flashed an all-knowing smile. “You’ll tip me if you know what's good for you, my stingy friend.”

“Is that a threat? You won't get tips by threatening your passengers.”

“You know what they say - the squeaky wheel gets the grease.”

Illya scowled. “What happened to service with a smile?”

“They're smiling because they're thinking about their tip.”

“Bah. Good work is its own reward.”

“You should keep the help happy,” countered Napoleon. 

Illya nodded. “So they don’t kill you.” 

Napoleon’s smile faded.

“I take it, you heard the news?” Illya quietly answered his own question.

Napoleon said, “Bad news travels fast. Get in the car, slowpoke. Let's go.”

“Wait, Napoleon. I want to talk to you before we see Mr. Waverly.”

“ _We_  are not seeing Mr. Waverly. You are.” 

“Napoleon. I must speak to you about what happened at the ranch.”

“Let’s hold off until we get to the office and have the field reports in front of us.” 

Napoleon slid behind the wheel. Illya remained rooted to the sidewalk for a long second, then took the front passenger seat. 

“Shouldn’t you be in Rouen? When did you get back?” Illya asked.

“Actually, I just got in. Mr. Waverly radioed last night and had me catch the next flight back. He told me to pick you up before coming to the office, to save a trip.” He gave Illya a thin smile. “I think the old penny pincher's been combing through our travel expenses again.” 

“You mean  _your_  travel expenses. And he’s not a penny pincher. He is frugal.”

“Whatever. Ah, by the way, Mr. Waverly's got you scheduled to see Dr. Theobald this afternoon.”

Illya scowled. “A psychiatrist? That's a bit much.” 

Napoleon glanced at his friend. “Did you play back the report you sent Waverly last night? From the way you sounded, even I think you should see Theo.” 

“You already listened to it? Mr. Waverly pulled you out of Rouen because of my report? I was overtired. This is ridiculous. I don’t need to be mollycuddled like a - ”

“Coddled. And you’re the one being ridiculous. You know damned well Mr. Waverly would sooner you twist in the wind than call me back from the field to hold your hand. And for your information, he didn't call me back because of your report.”

Illya pressed back into the car seat, silent. 

Napoleon cleared his throat. “He called me back because of Chuy’s report. I‘m taking over the operation.”

“Chuy. Hell. I should have known - he‘s so - ”

“Save it, Illya. Let’s get to the office. Then we can look at the pretty pictures that go with the story and figure out who needs protection, now that Madride is blown to hell.“

***

In Napoleon’s office, Illya stood in front of the couch, waiting for Napoleon to sit. Napoleon stood in front of his desk, facing Illya, and began without preamble. 

“He gave you twelve extra hours to look for that girl on your own, and you repaid him how?” Napoleon waited for a response, but getting none, said, “How’s this? ‘Oh, by the way, Mr. Waverly, I turned into a frozen zombie in the middle of a shoot-out with a Thrush nurse from Hell, but I decided you didn’t need to know about it.’ Christ, Illya.” 

Illya shook his head, and said, “That’s - ”

Napoleon cut him off. “You should have stayed at headquarters. You have no idea what’s wrong with you.”

Something slithered in Illya‘s stomach. He felt the little girl’s hand slip out of his as he lost his grip on her. He rubbed his hand on the side of his leg. “I feel fine. And there were no other incidents.”

“Call it what it is. You blacked out. You didn’t report it.”

“It didn’t happen again.”

Frustrated, Napoleon jabbed a finger at Illya. “Right. Wait until you black out at the wheel of a car, or on a roof top, jeopardizing whoever’s with you. And now that I think of it, that’s probably me.“ 

Napoleon turned and picked up Illya’s medical report from his desk. Scanning it, he said, “Drugs were ruled out. That still leaves a long list of causes to test for. Physical, and psychological.”

Illya said, “I am fine.” 

“You’re an idiot,” Napoleon said. “It’s time for your meeting with Mr. Waverly. Maybe he can knock some sense into your thick skull.”

***

As he approached Waverly’s office, he realized his hands were in motion, smoothing his tie, and he forced them to stop.

“Go right in, Illya.” Heather gave him a smile, half concern, half apprehension. 

Illya mouthed a silent “Thank you,“ and walked past her.

“Good luck,“ she murmured, but he was already inside.

Alexander Waverly made an impatient gesture to a chair already pulled out from the round table. “Sit down, Mr. Kuryakin.”

Illya nodded to Waverly and sat. 

Waverly turned his back to Illya, and contemplated the view from one of his office windows. His right hand moved in his jacket pocket, fidgeting with his pipe, a sure sign of agitation. Illya watched Waverly’s pocket and fought an urge to squirm, to do something with his own hands. He saw his hands lift to the implacable headmaster, the flash of the wooden ruler, the crack across the knuckles. 

At last, Waverly turned to Illya, who stiffened in his chair and braced himself for the onslaught. “I’m quite concerned about you, Mr. Kuryakin.” 

An unexpectedly soft remark, Illya reflected. Soft, so the blow, when it comes, hurts all the more. Waverly moved from the window and regarded his agent. 

“What separates the ultimatum from the idle threat, Mr. Kuryakin, is not the weight of the penalty, but the probability that it will be carried out.” 

Illya forced his face to remain impassive. Of course Waverly would know what he’d said to Wanda. When will I learn, he thought. His eyes fell on the globe in the center of the table. Blue and large, Iceland faced him. No… 

His stomach contracted, then his brain shifted into gear, recalling Waverly’s words. Schoolboy and ruler vanished. lllya pulled his eyes away from the land of ice and met Waverly’s stern gaze. He cleared his throat and weighed his options. He said, “I believe I would be of much more value to you here, sir, than in Iceland.”

Waverly’s brows rose nearly to his hairline. “What you believe is of no matter to me this morning, and what little value you erroneously believe you have to offer resides in the same black void your presence under fire disappeared into yesterday morning.” 

He took a step closer to Illya’s place at the table. “Do the rules of this organization no longer apply to you, Mr. Kuryakin? And have you suddenly become invincible? A superman?” 

Waverly plucked a white sheet of paper from a waiting folder and flicked it toward Illya. “This is Mr. Hernandez’ report. His version does not match yours, Mr. Kuryakin. I have the pertinent section marked. Read it aloud, why don’t you? So that we have no misunderstanding about what Mr. Hernandez had to say.“

With that, the headmaster took his seat, and the schoolboy reluctantly began his recitation. 

When he finished, Waverly tossed another white sheet at him. The medical form. “Let us examine the first question: ’Did you lose consciousness at any time?’ An easy question, with just two options, yes or no. Your answer is ‘no.’ What did you not understand about the question?” 

Illya rallied, pushing forward his first defense. “Sir, I believed that it would be better if I were to rest at home, rather than be subjected to - ”

Waverly swatted at the air. “Spare me. Try again, young man.”

Illya tried again. “Sir, I was primarily motivated by the prospect of restricted duty. It is imperative that I return to Taos to find the girl.”

“We have more efficient means to do that, Mr. Kuryakin.” Waverly stood, and went back to the windows. The sunshine lit the grey undertones in his face - a sleepless night. “Your opinion of your value is grossly inflated, and falls just short of stupidity. Moreover, you seem to believe this organization’s capacity to succeed in the Madride affair is contingent upon your involvement.”

Turning to Illya, Waverly said, “You are wrong. We’ll manage to limp along without you. We will recover what is left of Madride’s network. We will find his daughter.” 

He returned to his place at the table, picked a third white sheet of paper from the file folder and pushed it to Illya with a finger. “You are on restricted duty while the good doctors determine whether you have a brain injury, a clot, a tumor, or you have developed a fear of nurses. You are a liability, Mr. Kuryakin. Sign this.” 

Illya refused to look at the paper. “Mr. Waverly, please, may I speak plainly?” 

Waverly sat down and studied Illya. To Illya’s surprise, the old man’s posture softened, and Illya could have sworn he saw a shadow of a smile pass over Waverly’s lips. 

“Unfurl the flag, Mr. Kuryakin. Wave away.” 

“Sir, I promised Madride that no matter what, I would make sure his daughter would be safe. I have to go back. You see, Madride trusted me with his life, and his little girl‘s. I failed him, but I must honor my promise to him. I can’t fail him again.”

Waverly sighed. “Honor, trust, promises to keep - quite admirable, Mr. Kuryakin. He paused, then nudged the paper an inch closer to Illya. “You may assist from headquarters.”

“If you keep me here, I will resign.” Illya’s voice was soft.

Waverly‘s face blackened. “Perhaps you truly are brain damaged. If you resigned, you would be kept here indefinitely, for deprogramming and relocation assessment.” He took a pen from his pocket and placed it in front of Illya, next to the paper.

Illya sat, stone-faced. After a moment, he reached for the pen, signed his name at the bottom, and stood, eyes unfocused, waiting to be dismissed. 

Waverly said, “A letter of reprimand has been placed in your file. If you do not cooperate with the doctors, you will be demoted. You will repair yourself with all due haste. You will perform whatever work-related tasks you are given. You will remain at headquarters. If I have to put you in a cell in order to keep you here, I will. When this affair is closed, you may resign, if you still have a job from which to resign. Report to Mr. Solo, and get this affair in order.” 

Illya left, duly chastened, unsure which stung worse: the blow from the ruler, or the knowledge that his own ultimatum was never a threat at all, of no consequence in his master’s eyes.

In his office, Waverly picked up the papers where Illya had left them. He stacked them neatly and put them in the folder. Then he gave the globe a little spin, and settled in at his desk. He took out his pipe and perused his appointments for the day.

  
The End  


  
  
  



End file.
